The White Sea

by Paul Johnston

  Mavros smacked his forehead. He thought wistfully of the old days when he hadn’t even involved Yiorgos in his cases. Although they hadn’t always worked out so well.

  The thin man with the hooked nose and bright blue eyes stepped off the boat from Ayvalik and passed through Greek customs and immigration without any delay; he had a Turkish passport and spoke the language fluently. He did not reveal that he also spoke fluent Greek. He was wearing a worn black coat and carrying a battered suitcase. Within ten minutes he had disappeared into the back streets of Mytiline and, after going back on himself several times to ensure no one was following, went into a dilapidated apartment block. The small flat on the top floor had been booked by a travel company in Istanbul and paid for in cash. He went straight to the cupboard in the bedroom and, standing on a chair, felt for the bag he knew would be at the back of the highest compartment. He pulled it down and opened it on the bed. All the clothing and equipment he’d arranged for was present, as was a Greek ID card in the name of Christos Beratis. There were also five mobile phones fully charged and each with 20 euros credit. He used one to call his contact in the Greek police, then took out the battery and SIM card and crushed the device beneath his heavy boot. He would drop the pieces in separate waste bins.

  As he’d suspected, time was short. His man at the old olive press had kept him up to date with what had been done to Kostas Gatsos. It was clear that the end game had begun. The old man was so belligerent that it was possible the Son would kill him rather than set him loose. That had to be prevented.

  He went down to the harbour front and picked up the hire car, a medium-sized Jeep, that had been reserved online.

  ‘There you are, Mr Berati,’ said the smiling young female clerk, handing over the keys. ‘You’ll find a map in the glove compartment. Enjoy your time on Lesvos.’

  He nodded then picked up his bag. He had carefully wrapped the weapons with clothes to prevent unwanted metallic sounds. He was also wearing the same fedora that he’d kept on during the crossing. In his considerable experience people struggled to remember the facial features of those wearing hats. Not that it mattered. He had several exit routes arranged.

  At first the main road west out of Mytiline was busy with people leaving the town, but soon the traffic thinned. He went round the Gulf of Yera and headed south. He calculated that he’d be at the old factory in under an hour. The fact that he was both outnumbered and outgunned did not bother him in the least.

  The afternoon light was fading and the birds were singing their last songs as they settled on the branches.

  ‘What’s that?’ the Fat Man said, his voice low.

  Mavros strained forwards. Lights appeared in the gloom and a large black 4x4 moved down the road to the factory.

  ‘Shit,’ he said, under his breath. ‘Looks like there’s some kind of action here.’

  ‘Time to go,’ Yiorgos said.

  Laura and Marianthi got out, closing their doors quietly. Both were wearing jackets.

  ‘We go in single file,’ Mavros said, ‘me at the front and Yiorgos at the back. No talking, even though we don’t know for sure yet that old Gatsos is here. When I move my hand downwards, hit the dirt. Make sure your phones are on “vibrate”.’

  He waited till everyone complied and then led the way through the olive trees. The pressing plant was about several hundred metres ahead and they managed to get within thirty by keeping to the trees. Around the building was a clear space, dotted by broken-down lorries and rusting wagons.

  The car that had passed was parked by a heavy steel door. Two men in dark clothes were standing together. They were heavily built and their heads were shaved.

  ‘How the hell are we going to get past them?’ Mavros whispered.

  ‘Who says we want to get past them?’ Yiorgos said, having joined him at the tree line.

  ‘You’ve suddenly seen reason, have you?’

  ‘Those two are armed, even I can see that.’

  The pistols in the guards’ belts became more visible when one of them lit a cigarette.

  ‘We could split up,’ Mavros said. ‘You and Marianthi go left and see what you can find, Laura and I go right.’

  ‘That means you’ll have to cross the road.’

  Mavros nodded. ‘We’ll backtrack to the bend.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘But no heroics. Call me if you see anything interesting.’

  ‘Same to you.’ The Fat Man patted him on the back. ‘Look after your woman,’ he said, backing away.

  My woman, Mavros thought, unable to block out a vision of Niki hanging from the ceiling. What am I doing, bringing Laura here?

  As if to justify her presence, she tugged his sleeve and pointed to the door.

  He watched as Santiago Rojas and Igor Gogol came out of the factory.

  ‘Those bastards,’ she hissed. ‘Let’s get them.’

  Mavros led her away, wondering exactly how they were to achieve that without weapons, even though she seemed ready to rip their throats out. He looked at his watch. Babis and his sidekick would be here soon. They should wait.

  Then there came the muffled but unmistakable sound of a shot from the factory. It was followed by eight more.

  Jesus, Mavros thought. Have we just stood by as Kostas Gatsos was blown to pieces?

  Jim Thomson heard the shots too. He’d parked his hire car on the main road after he saw Mavros’s vehicle turn left, then cut across the olive plantation till he was within sight of the group. With him he had his rucksack, the Russian grenade still wrapped up with the stone from Ivy’s committal. He had no idea why he’d brought it, but it was beginning to look like a good idea. He saw the big 4x4 arrive and two men get out. The distance was such that he couldn’t make out their features. They were both wearing dark clothes. They spoke briefly to the pair that seemed to be on guard duty and went inside.

  Jim lay down and looked up at the darkening sky, the first stars beginning to appear. They reminded him of his time on Ikaria with Marigo. Here he was, only a few kilometres from the white sea that had nearly swallowed him after his disgrace. Instead it washed him clean, healed his wounds and carried him to the other side of the world, despite Kostas Gatsos’s plans. What was he doing on this Greek island, part of a homeland that was no longer his?

  Jim Thomson couldn’t answer that question, but he watched the foursome as they split up, then followed the long-haired Alex Mavros and the woman before the shooting started.

  After that it was every man for himself, never mind women and children first.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘What do we do?’ Laura asked, her fingers trembling against Mavros’s hand.

  His phone vibrated.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ the Fat Man whispered, in agitation.

  ‘Yes. What can you see?’

  ‘Not a lot. There are more vehicles round the back but the only light’s coming from a window on the ground floor. Curtains or the like must be over it because it’s faint. Hang on, two people have just come out. The door to one of the car’s being opened. Fuck! It’s him. It’s Kostas Gatsos!’

  ‘Is he alive?’

  ‘Yes, he’s walking but with difficulty. They’re putting him in the back seat. What do we do? Marianthi? Christ, where’s she gone?’

  ‘Stay put. She’s probably just lying low. This must all be a shock. I’m going to get round the back on this side. Out.’

  ‘Stay here,’ he said to Laura. ‘Kostas Gatsos is alive.’

  ‘Forget it, Alex. I’m coming with you.’

  ‘Shit. All right.’

  They moved forward, hands extended to make their way through the trees.

  Then there was the roar of an engine. Lights appeared to their left and a car drove quickly through the trees and on to the road, heading away from the factory. Then it screeched to a halt at the narrowest section after the olive trees and was manouevred until it blocked the road.

  ‘Marianthi,’ Mavros said. He watched as the drive
r got out, leaving the lights on, and ran for cover.

  A shot rang out, then another.

  ‘Go and see if you can find her,’ Mavros said. ‘She might have been hit.’

  ‘No, I want—’

  ‘Do as I say, Laura. Please. This is getting bloody.’

  She kissed him on the lips and headed to the lights, before swerving away towards the main road.

  ‘Nicely done,’ Mavros muttered. His phone vibrated again.

  ‘What happened?’ the Fat Man said, his voice strained.

  ‘Marianthi’s blocked the road. Laura’s gone to find her.’

  ‘Were the fuckers shooting at her?’

  ‘Probably. Stay where you are. I’m coming.’

  But before Mavros got far, a voice rang out.

  ‘Mavro! Alex Mavro! Are you there?’

  Mavros’s stomach clenched. The Son. Even though he hadn’t heard the killer’s voice for six years, he recognised it immediately.

  ‘We have unfinished business, you and I. Don’t you want to know what happened to your Niki? Come over and I’ll tell you. That way you’ll also be saving the life of Kostas Gatsos. Surely you don’t want to be responsible for his death just as he was on the point of being set free? You know I’ll kill him in a heartbeat.’

  Mavros’s phone went off again.

  ‘Don’t do it!’ Yiorgos said, speaking at normal volume. ‘It’s a trick.’

  ‘Can you see Gatsos?’

  ‘They’re taking him back inside. There’s … there’s a pistol to his head.’

  ‘That’s it, I haven’t got a choice. I’m going in.’

  ‘No, don’t do—’

  Mavros turned off his phone and went forward with his head down. There were several lights on around the pressing plant now. When he came out of the trees, he stood up straight and raised his hands high.

  ‘There he is,’ the Son said cheerfully. ‘Move forward.’ He held no weapon, but two of the guards had pistols aimed at him. ‘I told you we’d meet again.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Mavros said, blinking away flashes of Niki’s dangling body.

  ‘You knew I was behind this, didn’t you?’ The Son watched as the guards searched Mavros, then nodded.

  ‘I saw the threat about the Father and Son. A pretty stupid communication.’

  ‘Why? No one but you cottoned on and you only found us by luck.’ The assassin stared at him. ‘How did you find us, by the way?’

  ‘The Theophilos painting.’

  The Son laughed. ‘I knew we shouldn’t have taken it, but I was under orders. It’s a collector’s piece.’ He turned on his heel. ‘Bring him in. And get that car off the road.’

  Mavros was pushed through the door and taken to a wooden staircase that led downwards. He caught glimpses of rusty cauldrons and machinery, the bitter smell of crushed olive stones filling his nostrils – and something else: the reek of human waste and the metallic tang of blood.

  ‘Here we are,’ said the Son, ushering him into a room.

  Gagging with horror and fear, Mavros took in the apparatus. There was blood on the hooks and table.

  A man with a badly scarred face joined them.

  ‘What is this?’ he asked the Son, in English. ‘We must go now. Police are coming.’

  ‘Fuck the police!’ the Son screamed suddenly, eyeballs bulging. ‘I’ve been waiting for years to deal with this piece of shit!’

  ‘Igor Gogol,’ Mavros said to the other man. ‘You realise what this animal’s capable of, don’t you? He’ll ruin everything for the sake of an old gru—’ He collapsed, fighting for breath after the Son buried a fist in his abdomen.

  ‘Wait for me,’ the assassin ordered. ‘I won’t be long.’ He grabbed Mavros by the shoulders and wrestled him into the torture chamber.

  ‘You … you killed … Niki.’

  The Son smiled. ‘Is that what you think? What you’ve been thinking for years? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you.’

  ‘The photo … of me and … Rachel Samuel?’

  ‘I slipped that under the door all right, but you can’t hold me responsible for how your mad lover reacted.’

  ‘Want … a bet?’

  ‘Lie down on the table or the first hook will be in your eye.’

  Mavros did as he was told, still struggling to catch his breath.

  ‘Good,’ said the Son. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t had time to sterilise the hooks. Still, Kostas Gatsos’s blood is very rich.’ He laughed harshly.

  Mavros looked into the killer’s eyes and saw the emptiness in them. Then he realised the Son was so far from normal emotions that he had a fatal character flaw. In his arrogance he thought no one would resist when confronted by the awful instruments of pain. Mavros knew what he had to do.

  The Fat Man was caught in two minds. Should he go back to the vehicle and find Marianthi or try to help Mavros? He was about to start towards the factory on a hopeless charge against the odds when he heard a rustle behind him.

  ‘Need help?’ said a voice, the Greek pronunciation slightly off kilter.

  Yiorgos turned and in the dim light made out a white-haired figure that he recognised.

  ‘You were in the taverna last night,’ he said, in a loud whisper. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Jim Thomson.’

  ‘Australian?’

  ‘You could say that. You’re Yiorgos Pandazopoulos, aren’t you?’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Alex Mavros’s sidekick. I’ve read about you in the newspaper archives.’

  The Fat Man stared at him. There was something about the wellpreserved man that rang more distant bells.

  ‘Anyway, he’s in trouble.’

  ‘Yes,’ Yiorgos said. ‘Russian mobsters and a shithead torturer called the Son.’

  ‘Better get moving then.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A hand grenade.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Pay close attention to what I’m going to say.’

  ‘Certainly. What have I got to lose?’

  Mavros moved his right hand quickly and grabbed the Son’s balls. Then he took one of the larger hooks and forced the barbed end into the killer’s neck as he bent down in agony.

  The man in black at the door raised his pistol and then looked over his shoulder. There was a commotion behind him, voices raised and then silenced. One continued to speak loudly, in English.

  ‘This is the pin from the grenade in my other hand. As you can see, I’m keeping the lever depressed. If I’m shot, you can imagine what will happen. I’m not familiar with Russian models, but I’m pretty sure everyone in here will be cut to pieces by fragments. So give your weapons to my comrade and sit down with your hands behind your backs.’

  ‘Do something, you fools!’

  Mavros picked up what he thought was a Spanish accent. Then there was a gun shot, the noise very loud in the enclosed basement. Groans could then be heard.

  ‘Give me that,’ Mavros said, pointing the Son’s pistol at the man by the door, who glanced at the writhing figure of the Son and complied. ‘This is Alex Mavros, coming out.’

  He did so and was confronted by a row of black-clad men sitting against the wall, their eyes wide.

  ‘Yiorgo?’

  ‘Present. I shot the fucker.’

  Mavros glanced at Igor Gogol, who was rolling across the floor, clutching his thigh.

  ‘Who’s your friend?’

  The Fat Man turned to the man with the grenade. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes, you do. You’ve forgotten.’

  Mavros stared at the white-haired man, his heart pounding. Could it really be?

  Then there was a dull crump and the basement filled with smoke. Fingers scrabbled in the dark as the disarmed men tried to reclaim their weapons.

  Laura and Marianthi had moved closer to the factory after the black 4x4 had bulldozed theirs from the road. The two men in it reversed at speed, then got out and ran into the building.

  �
��What’s going on in there?’

  ‘No good,’ Marianthi replied, in her limited English. ‘Yiorgos and Alex, where they?’

  ‘They must be inside.’

  ‘We go.’

  A figure with a hat pulled low stepped in front of them. He had a machine pistol in each hand and was wearing black leather gloves.

  ‘Not a good idea,’ he said, first in English and then in Greek. ‘Stay here, off the road. Did I understand you to say that Alex Mavros and Yiorgos Pandazopoulos are in the building?’

  Laura and Marianthi were nodding.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after them.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Laura called after him, but there was no response.

  They watched as he approached the door cautiously, then slipped inside.

  ‘James Bond?’ Marianthi asked, then laughed nervously. ‘Police?’

  ‘Too old for 007,’ said Laura, leading her into the cover of the trees. ‘How did he know their names?’

  ‘They famous,’ Marianthi said. ‘Big heroes.’

  Laura looked dubious.

  ‘At last,’ Santiago Rojas said, as the smoke from the smoke grenades cleared. ‘I was beginning to think you were all idiots.’

  Two black-clad men stood at the foot of the staircase, pistols in their hands. One of the men who had been sitting down was holding another semi-automatic against the head of the man with the grenade, his other hand gripping the captive’s arm.

  ‘Give me grenade,’ he said, in guttural English. ‘Or I put your brains on wall.’

  The white-haired man complied and was immediately punched hard in the stomach by another guard. The Fat Man received the same treatment. The first man painstakingly replaced the pin.

  ‘Where’s Mavros?’ the Son shouted, blood pumping through the fingers of the hand he was holding to his neck. ‘Find the fucker!’

  Men spread out across the basement, throwing open doors.

  ‘And Gatsos?’ Rojas asked.

  ‘Screw Gatsos! He’s in the cupboard in the torture chamber. Find Mavros!’

  There was a burst of fire, then another, and the men at the bottom of the stairs collapsed, heads shattered. A figure in black wearing a hat moved quickly past them

  One of the Russians shouted and then went down, his head haloed in crimson.